Bird Songs on Thursdays
by BerraSmerra
Summary: It might have started with the medical supplies. A collection of stories about the Woman Who Walked the Earth and The Fallen Angel.


**Since I don't see any Martha Jones/Castiel on the internet (that and all my favorite fanfics are on hold for the time being) I decided that I'll write some drabbles. Why not? they're fun and I have barely any time to read them anymore let alone write, but I love to abuse myself. And I will get back to writing full length stories eventually. **

**So enjoy!**

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The first time Castiel thought there was something wrong with him—or really him in relation with _Martha_—was on a hot Thursday afternoon in a no name town in Pennsylvania.

Martha had been fixing up a gash Dean had somehow attained on their last hunt, cross-legged on the floor, hands kneading at the older brother's shoulder, right above the damaged skin, helping him relax as her other hand carefully applied the disinfectant, dabbing gently. They were in some worn down cabin just off the highway, and Sam was out to getting supplies before they hit the road again. Dean griped every so often about Martha not allowing him any alcohol, while Castiel watched intently, eyes never leaving the duo in case one or the other needed help with something.

Hands in his lap as he gazed on, Castiel felt useless. As at the time he couldn't do anything to speed up the process of healing the Winchesters, having used up too much grace beforehand. Martha had tried to subdue his agitation, promising to teach the angel how to clean wounds and weave stitches as soon as she found the time, just in case something like that ever happened again. Cas had thanked her, wanting nothing more than to display some sort of gratitude without looking as if he was in pain, but failing miserably at that.

He had found his gaze lingering on the British woman more in those days, following her movements as if cataloging every reaction and detail in her form, amazed at just how resilient she was and how unfazed she seemed at times(even though he's been well aware of her tenure with the Doctor for a very long time).

He was fixated on her hands, how they twitched whenever she saw some new cut or bruise, how her fingers flexed in a near constant motion, long and nimble, interlocking themselves at times when in deep thought. The almost perpetual motion of her palm brushing up her torso during times of danger; digits reaching towards her neck as if searching for some type of comfort and finding none. Sometimes, he even caught her fingers running over each other, as if checking to see if she was really there, making sure it's her body that she's in.

She flinches when the air conditioning in the old home kicks in; breathe hitching while her hand almost reached for her neck. Even Dean was startled by the loud whirring noise that soon faded to nothing but background noise. Castiel had only seen that type of reaction when she was asleep, when her body visibly trembled from what he knew had to have been a nightmare, body striving to be stock still while her lungs worked to even out her heart beat again. And at night lying awake staring at her silhouetted back, he thinks of wings, wrapping around her form at dawn, protecting and shielding her from those nightmares.

Like a tragic angel; nurturing and loving, but a deadly and natural born warrior, ready to sacrifice everything for the good of others.

It took him a few moments before he seemed to see Martha's outstretched hand, gauze held aloft as her dark brown eyes bore directly into his blue ones. Something pooled deep in his stomach in that moment, something hot and thick that settled heavily at the bottom, and suddenly he couldn't breathe properly, throat dry, her questioning stare turning into concern as her other hand comes down on his shoulder.

"Castiel?" she inquires, gaze worried, "Are you alright? You haven't moved in five minutes." Dean laughs throatily, making Martha glance back at him before turning back to the angel, brows creased as she leans in closer. He could tell she was apprehensive, new to the whole 'mo-jo-less-angel' thing—dubbed that by Dean, who thought he was being clever—completely out of her depth in the situation.

Not wanting to be another thing for Martha to worry about, Castiel had tilted his head, nodding stiffly in wordless reply. Martha let out a little sigh of relief, fingers feeling heavy to the angel as they squeezed his arm, raising them to rest on his forehead before releasing him from her soft touch.

"Dean doesn't need stitches; the gash is pretty minor, despite his complaints to the contrary." she paused rolling her eyes fondly at him before continuing, "So I thought I'd show you how to wrap a cut."

Cas nodded numbly, hand brushing hers as he clasped the medical supplies in his own, body buzzing from the contact. He was on the floor next to Dean in a matter of seconds, hands moving in the ways she dictated, voice soft and assuring, lulling him into a daze.

It was only when it was over, when Martha was packing away supplies, and Dean had turned to give him an appraising look, mouth quirked in this odd way that didn't sit right with him, that Castiel realized he had a _problem_.

A _Martha Jones_ shaped problem.

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**On the topic of my other stories:**

**I have no time to write anymore guys and I'm so sorry, between college applications, Drama practice, Ap Lit, Chorus and its just getting really hectic. In fact I haven't even seen my dad this whole week, despite living in the same house because of school stuff.**

**So I'm really sorry and I will get back to writing soon. Hopefully sometime within the next month things should start settling down.**


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